


Reciprocal

by Rizandace



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mosaic, because these boys are so very DUMB, it's just there for the angst, very brief Eliot/OMC but it's not really a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizandace/pseuds/Rizandace
Summary: The thing about Quentin Coldwater was that it was pretty much impossible not to love him. Honestly, it wasn't even Eliot's fault - how was he expected to spend every second of every day around such a beautiful, adorable, kind person without letting it get to him? And the sex. Well. That was fucking incendiary, which really wasn't helping his resolve in the love department.





	Reciprocal

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in an alternate version of the Mosaic timeline where Q and Arielle never become a thing.
> 
> I LOVE the episode as it's presented in canon, don't get me wrong. I love reading fics that navigate the three of them as a relationship, and I have my own head-canons about how that relationship worked.
> 
> But this time, I just wanted to write something indulgent and trope-y where Q and Eliot work out their shit relatively early on in the mosaic time-line, and live happily ever after.

The thing about Quentin Coldwater was that it was pretty much impossible not to love him. Honestly, it wasn't even Eliot's fault - how was he expected to spend every second of every day around such a beautiful, adorable, kind person without letting it get to him? And the sex. Well. That was fucking incendiary, which really wasn't helping his resolve in the love department.

But they never  _talked_  about it. Sure, Quentin was Eliot's best friend in the entire world, and they told each other everything, shared the deepest, darkest secrets of their souls with one another. Sure, they spent every second of every day with each other and never got sick of each other, and they made each other scream in bed, but Eliot was still not sure sometimes whether they were... like... a  _couple_.

That was probably a stupid thing to be worried about, but it niggled at the back of Eliot's head sometimes, in the most troubling ways. Quentin would mention something about "back home" when talking about their lives before the mosaic, and Eliot would suddenly picture Alice's face, and wonder - if they figured out the puzzle tomorrow, would Q go back to pining after her like their time in Fillory had never happened? Or Quentin would reach for Eliot's hand so they could walk through the nearby village with their fingers all tangled together, and instead of trusting and enjoying the simple affection of it, Eliot would wonder if Q meant it to be a signal to others that they belonged to each other, or if for him the touch was only friendly, the way it had been when he and Margo would hold hands back at Brakebills.

Most of the time, though, he could ignore the doubts. He could be happy with Quentin, happier than he'd thought possible, and he could try his damnedest to believe that Q was just as happy.

And then, they met Arielle.

* * *

It would have been amusing if it weren't so fucking devastating, but it was pretty clear from day one that Quentin had a big ol' crush on Miss Peaches and Plums.

First it was just a couple minutes of conversation when she came by on her rounds, and then it was advice on the best way to barter for cloth in the nearby village, and then, after Lug was out of the picture, it was invitations to join her on her journeys to other nearby villages.

"She invited us to go to a town gathering, it's like a big festival thing, coming up next month. I think we should do it."

Q was practically glowing. It was an expression Eliot fervently wished he had something to do with. "We've got a bit of a project to work on, Q," Eliot said, waving his hands at a half-finished mosaic pattern.

"I know that," Q said, coming up to him and hooking his hands around Eliot's neck. "I just think maybe a break would be a good thing. For both of us." Quentin had kissed him then, one of those slow, searching kisses that Eliot could honestly drown himself in, and - well. The rest is history.

The town gathering was an unmitigated success. They found linens and window dressings and a bunch of vegetable seeds and so many other odds and ends they'd been needing, that Eliot had to grudgingly admit the trip had been well worth the four days' travel it took to get there and back. And if Q smiled a little too wide at Arielle's jokes, spent the days of travel chattering away at her and shooting only very occasional glances at an uncharacteristically taciturn Eliot,  at least Q was still sleeping at Eliot's side at the end of each evening.

They were eight months in to their not-a-relationship thing when Quentin emerged from the cottage one morning, his hair still mussed with sleep, and joined Eliot on the bench by the mosaic. He'd been sleeping in quite a lot over the past couple of weeks, feeling low-energy and unenthusiastic, his depression making itself known, so Eliot was relieved to see a tired smile on Q's face as he leaned in for a kiss. "Good morning."

"I got started without you, I figured - "

"Thank you. You're too good to me." Q kissed him again, full of tenderness, and Eliot sighed when he pulled back, wishing he could find a way to live in that moment forever. "So. Um. I had a thought."

"Mmm?"

"I know it's supposed to be your turn to do the village run, but what if we both go? Just take the day off some time this week, maybe even stay over night?"

"Yeah?"

It was sort of like taking a vacation, Eliot thought to himself, his stomach lurching in a pleased sort of way. Like a little weekend getaway. That was the kind of thing couples did, right?

"Yeah. Arielle's going to be passing through the village, she's back from her trade route. Thought it might be good timing, we might meet up with her there."

There was another stomach lurch, this one filled with dread. Right. Arielle.

"You know, Q," Eliot said, and then stopped. He really wanted to ask Q if he had feelings for Arielle, wanted to have one of those insufferable relationship talks he'd always worked so hard to avoid.  _What are we? Where is this relationship going?_ But instead, what came out of his mouth was: "Maybe you should go without me."

Q blinked at him, surprised. "Oh. Really? Why?"

"It's just... the mosaic. I feel like we shouldn't be shirking our quest."

Q reached a hand up and brushed it along Eliot's face, tilting his head so they were staring right at each other. Just the pressure of Q's fingertips on his cheek made Eliot dizzy with want. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yes. I'm. Come here." He bent to kiss him, and Q allowed it, humming happily against Eliot's lips and wrapping his arms around Eliot's neck. He let himself sink into it for a long moment, then pulled back. Q kept their faces close, their noses brushing. "Q..."

"What?"

"I - nothing. You should go without me."

But Q was shaking his head, a disappointed little frown forming between his eyebrows. "No, El, it's your turn to go to the village, and you're much better at haggling than I am anyway. You're right, it was a stupid idea, I just thought..."

Eliot's heart seized in his chest. "Not a stupid idea. If you wanted to go, spend some time with Arielle..." he hated himself for even suggesting it, but he wanted Q to be happy.

Q shrugged, then shook his head again. "Nah. She'll come by on her next rounds. You go to town, I'll keep plugging away here."

And that seemed to close the conversation. On his way into the nearby village that weekend, Eliot turned the exchange over and over in his mind. Q had seemed disappointed about not going into town with Eliot, but had rejected the chance to go on his own and meet up with Arielle. What was he doing? Was he trying to disguise his crush on her, to spare Eliot's feelings, or... Oh.

Yeah, that made perfect sense, didn't it? Eliot groaned, a loud sound on the empty footpath through the woods. Q could be such a martyr sometimes. If he wanted Arielle, he should just go for it. If he wanted Eliot too, then... well then Eliot was lucky to have at least that much of Quentin Coldwater's attention. But he was so bad at this, at  _talking_  about things. Honestly, they both were. Q was probably worried he'd hurt Eliot if he brought up his feelings for Arielle, and, as long as Eliot was being brutally honest with himself, it  _would_  hurt him. But it would hurt him worse to think that Q was staying with him in their little sex bubble out of obligation or something.

The bitch of it all was that Arielle was actually... pretty awesome. After Eliot completed the shopping for the day, he did indeed meet up with Arielle, and the two of them met up with some of her friends at a nearby tavern. Eliot, his mind still churning uncomfortably over all of the annoying feelings he was having for his best friend, indulged in the somewhat disgusting mead with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.

He recognized a couple of Arielle's friends from other trips into the village - in particular, the tall, muscular carpenter Peter, who had been hitting on Eliot all evening. He'd be lying if he hadn't felt a stirring of interest, especially as the night wore on and his drinking increased. But he couldn't do that to Q. They hadn't ever talked about it, of course, but it was a little hard to be clandestine when you were living in each other's pockets all the time. They hadn't been with anyone but each other since arriving in Fillory, and Eliot didn't mind that even a little bit.

And then, just as Peter had put a not-so-subtle hand on Eliot's thigh, Arielle had let out a laugh at something one of her friends had said, throwing back her face and letting her beautiful hair, worn loose for an evening of relaxation, flow around her face. She was so beautiful. Even Eliot could admit that. And if  _he_  noticed, there was no way Q hadn't, and... and would it be so bad if Q wanted Arielle? Would it be the end of everything if Quentin wanted to start something with her? After all, they were on their quest together. Nothing could stop that. Even the sex didn't have to stop. People had open relationships. People had  _arrangements_. Eliot had been a side piece before, and honestly it wasn't at all bad. Of course, he'd never been in  _love_  with someone before, not like this, so maybe...

He was too drunk to be thinking so much about this. When Peter leaned in to whisper something in his ear, Eliot didn't push him away. Eliot could be a "casual sex" person. That was practically what he was built for. He could let Peter the Carpenter nibble on his ear, and he could let Q fall in love with Arielle - and he could keep Q in his life no matter what.

He pulled away from Peter long enough to finish off his drink, then stood up and grabbed at Peter's hand, tugging him towards the stairs.

* * *

The next morning, Eliot left the village before dawn, feeling desperate and achy for Quentin. He made the trip back to the cottage quickly, and was rewarded for his haste. Q rushed out the door the second he heard Eliot in the yard, throwing his arms around him and kissing him thoroughly. "Missed you."

Eliot caught Q and held him close, repeating the sentiment and ignoring the hot squirm of guilt inside of him as he did so. Having him here, touching him and kissing him, made the last twenty-four hours seem a little unreal to Eliot. He'd had his reasons, and they'd been well thought-out at the time, at least as well thought-out as one could be while completely sloshed on Fillorian booze. Quentin needed more than Eliot could offer, and this way, he could pursue it, without feeling guilty about it. And Eliot could - beg for scraps. Take whatever he could get. Or something that sounded less pathetic.

Still, there was the undeniable fact that he had to tell Q about this, and somehow when Eliot had thought through the abstract idea, he hadn't really contemplated what it would mean to look at Quentin Coldwater, a man he loved more than life itself, and say 'hey, by the way, I fucked someone else.' He didn't think Q would  _hate_  him for it, but there was always the chance he'd be furious at Eliot for not consulting him.

Well. Eliot had only bothered with Peter because he'd seen it as a way to keep Q around while also giving him his freedom. He had to tell Q, or the whole thing was pointless.

"I came up with the next few designs while you were away," Q was saying, tugging Eliot by the hand into the cottage, over to a sheaf of loose papers on their tiny, well-warn table. "Oh, we should go put the last tile down together, on the one I did last night." He changed directions, tugging Eliot back out of the cottage again, and Eliot smiled. He recognized this sort of frenetic energy in Quentin. It meant he was over the hump of his latest bout of depression, and the lifting of the shadows had left him feeling more energized and cheerful than usual. He'd settle back into a more level-headed Q in a day or so, but Eliot found the fast-talking, bubbly version incredibly endearing.

For the remainder of that day, Eliot was content to simply bask in his presence. It was alarming how much he'd truly missed Quentin, after just one night apart. He tried very hard not to feel guilty about what had happened last night, and mostly managed to push it out of his mind, as he and Q spent a quiet, contented morning working out a pattern on the mosaic. When it was completed, they stood in silence for a couple of seconds, as usual, waiting for something to happen. And then, as usual, when it didn't, they shrugged their shoulders and started lifting the tiles up again.

Sometime near noon, their second pattern of the day barely started, they stopped for a break and went inside to grab a quick bite to eat. This was also frequently the time of day when Eliot and Q lost their cool entirely and ended up falling into bed together, after a morning of proximity, of pretending to focus only on the mosaic and not each other. But Eliot's insides were still squirming, and when Q kissed him softly after handing him a pewter mug of water, El didn't escalate it. Q didn't seem to notice anything amiss, however. He pulled away with a fond grin and turned away to reach for some plates on the counter-top, examining them to see if they were clean or dirty.

"Hey," he said thoughtfully as he shook crumbs off the plate. "I was thinking about making a table for outside. It's sunny most of the year so it'd be nice to have a surface to eat on that's not indoors."

Eliot made a vague sound of agreement.

"Do you think we should actually like - chop down a tree and make one from scratch? I wish one of us knew what the hell we were doing. Maybe we could hire someone from the town to come in and show us how. Might be a useful skill to develop, anyway."

Eliot had been only half-listening to Q, focusing on sketching out a couple of new patterns that they could work on over the next few days while Q prepared food for them. But suddenly, something about Quentin's words sunk in for him. Oh, shit. This was - this was the perfect segue-way. He could be casual about it, make it seem like it was no big thing. Maybe if he acted that way, it would be true. He cleared his throat, looking up from the stack of paper on their little table inside.

"What about Peter? He's the carpenter, you met him when we needed advice on re-thatching the roof." That was good. So casual.

"Yeah, that sounds right - big guy, dark hair?"

"Mm. Big dick too. Gives adequate head."

Quentin dropped the plate he was holding. It was earthenware and it didn't shatter, just made a dull  _thwack_  against he dirt floor. "What?" he said. Eliot couldn't really interpret the tone of his voice. He stared back down at the papers, because meeting Q's eyes suddenly seemed impossible.

"Yeah, I wasn't sure if I should - like - run it past you, or whatever," Eliot said. He was losing his cool, the aloof --  _oh by the way, no big deal, I know we're not exclusive --_  energy he was hoping to bring to this conversation. He cleared his throat. "It was probably just a one time thing, anyway. Not a particularly inspired coupling, if I'm being honest."

"You fucked him?" It was a question, but it barely came out as one. Quentin's voice was utterly without inflection.

"Yeah."

" _When_."

"Uh, in town, yesterday, I - hey what the fuck?"

Quentin had just shoved past him, hard, and exited the cottage, leaving the food untouched on the table.

Well. Eliot hadn't really been sure what to expect. There was a bit of gratification at the idea that Quentin was mad at him, maybe  _jealous_  that he'd been with someone else. Maybe that would show him - maybe he'd change his mind about wanting Arielle now, and - but no. That wasn't the point of this whole thing. That was uncharitable and selfish, and Eliot had swore to put Quentin's happiness above his own.

He sighed, gritting his teeth, and followed Quentin outside, to find him aggressively sorting through stacks of tiles, his face stony and turning red.

"Q," Eliot said.

"So you're just fucking random men in the village, then?" Quentin said. He sounded angry, that was easy enough to determine, but there was a sort of hysterical edge to his tone that Eliot didn't really know what to do with.

"It's not like a habit or anything. Actually, to be honest, this was the only time it's happened. You're hard enough to keep up with as it is - "

Q slammed down a stack of tiles so hard that Eliot was worried he was going to break them, and then whirled to face Eliot. His face was blanched suddenly white, his lips pressed tight together. He didn't say anything, and Eliot felt something in his chest shift, felt that wave of guilt overtake him again.

"Okay, stupid joke. Sorry, Q. Listen, this doesn't have to be a big deal."

"It doesn't?" Quentin asked. "Why - Eliot, I don't understand why you did this."

Eliot shrugged, keeping his face carefully blank. "I met up with Arielle in the village like you said. She introduced me to some friends, we all got something to drink at the tavern, and then... I don't know. I was drunk. He was there."

Quentin was looking at him with astonishment, his mouth hanging open just the tiniest bit. "He was... there."

"Quentin," Eliot said. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I just didn't want to make a big thing out of it. It's not like - I mean, it's not like we're..." he couldn't say it though. He couldn't say out loud that he and Quentin weren't a couple. He was so goddamn pathetic he hated himself for it. And Quentin was still looking at him in angry bewilderment.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "We're both free to do whatever we want, right?"

Something twitched behind Quentin's eyes. He looked down at his feet for a moment, and then turned his back on Eliot. His voice was rough and uneven when he called back over his shoulder. "Can you keep this pattern going? I need. I need a walk."

He had stormed off of the mosaic and towards the woods before Eliot could decide whether or not he should stop him.

Privacy was a necessity for both of them, and going on solitary walks through the trees was a favorite method of escape for Q, so Eliot tried very hard to respect his boundaries and not follow him. He was able to keep his cool for three whole hours, most of which he spent in lackluster completion of the pattern they were working on. He saved the last tile out, of course, just like they always did, but he'd long ago stopped expecting any of their patterns to work.

When the sun started to go down, Eliot felt the first grip of real panic take hold. How much longer should he wait before going after him? Giving Q space was one thing, but what if something happened to him while he was out in the woods, in the dark, by himself? Oh, God, if anything ever happened to Quentin, Eliot was going to die - it would  _kill_  him, it -

"El," Q's voice was dull, quiet. Eliot spun around and willed his heart to stop choking his throat, as Q walked around the other side of the cottage. He'd clearly come around the long way, through one of the footpaths that circumvented the cottage clearing through the perimeter of the woods.

"Thank God," he said, unthinking. Q's face was completely blank. He couldn't read anything in his expression.

"Sorry if I scared you," Q said.

"Um," Eliot said, choked. "No, it's okay. I'm - sorry, I - "

"I'm pretty tired, I think I'm going to go lie down," Q said. Eliot nodded at him, and forgot to remind Q to stand with him to complete the pattern. They'd have to wait until the morning.

Eliot stayed outside, sketching out new patterns, his heart in his stomach, until the light had completely faded from the clearing. When he went inside, Q was pretending to be asleep in his own cot, the one he hadn't slept in for months. Eliot bit back something that felt uncomfortably like a sob, and went to lie down in his bed alone. Q wanted space. He could give Q space. And in the morning, they'd work it out.

* * *

In the morning, they did not work it out. Q was polite, and stilted, and they ate breakfast together, and Eliot tried very hard not to panic.

"Q, I'm really sorry," he tried tentatively, as they went outside to begin their work for the day.

Quentin sighed, a long-suffering sound that made Eliot feel about two inches tall. "No need to apologize, El," he said, with an inscrutable little shrug. "I overreacted, I'm sorry for being dramatic."

"Oh. No, uh - you don't have to apologize for anything. I should have - we should have talked about it."

Q shrugged again, and he wouldn't meet Eliot's eyes. "Let's just get to work, okay?"

And that, more or less, was how it was for two whole days. Q was distant and -  _polite_  - but he was clearly still angry, too.

He didn't quite flinch when Eliot touched him but he certainly didn't lean in to Eliot's touch, either. Eliot was savvy enough to give Q the space he so clearly required, but it fucking stung every time. He was only now realizing just how often he and Q touched each other. Not just in the context of sex, but constantly. Eliot's hand on the nape of Q's neck, Q's hand on Eliot's back, their knees touching under the little table in the cottage when they sat down to eat. The absence of that warm, familiar contact left Eliot feeling cold and uncertain, like his entire world was off-kilter. But he waited. He waited a full forty-eight hours, which he thought was actually fairly impressive, before he pressed the issue again.

They were working on the mosaic, in a silence that usually felt companionable but today felt strained, when Eliot finally broke down and started the conversation.

"How long are you going to be mad at me?" It came out a bit more antagonistic than he'd intended. But honestly, as badly as he felt for hurting Q, this was getting a little out of hand. His stomach was in knots all the time, to the point where he'd barely been eating, and he'd found it impossible to sleep well without Q curled against him in his tiny bed. Beyond all of that, it was disconcerting, not being able to tell how Q felt. He was used to sharing a life with this man, in every possible sense of the words, and the distance between them was nothing short of agony.

"I'm not mad," Q said. Snapped, really. He still wouldn't look at Eliot, so he missed Eliot's incredulously raised eyebrows.

"Right."

"I'm  _not,"_ Q said, slamming a tile into place with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

"Quentin, be serious. I apologized, okay? I should have talked to you, we should have had a conversation about what we were doing, and - "

"That's not - that's not even the  _point_ ," Q growled, shoving a red tile automatically across the space between them, towards Eliot's side of the design. "You don't get it."

"So fucking explain it, then," Eliot said. "Q, this fucking  _sucks_. You're angry and you're being all weird and I  _hate_ it."

Q sucked in a breath like he was going to respond, and then let it out, an exasperated sigh. Finally, just when Eliot was sure he wasn't going to answer, he stood up and took a distracted step away from the mosaic. Eliot stood as well, drawn to him like a magnet.

When Q finally spoke, his voice had gone quiet, and had lost some of that dull anger it had been carrying for the last couple of days. "You're right," Quentin said. "Eliot, I'm sorry, okay - I'm. Not mad at you. Not really."

"You have a funny way of - "

"Just." Quentin put a hand up to stop him, staring down at his own feet. He seemed incapable of meeting Eliot's eye. "I'm mad at  _myself_ , okay? I fucked everything up, and I... I just thought. I didn't mean to ruin anything. I overreacted and. And I'm sorry for the cold shoulder, okay? I think I just needed a day or two to... um. Process."

Eliot blinked at that, a little bewildered, and wished that Quentin would turn to face him so he could read his friend's expression. "Okay, Q, I - honey, I'm trying to understand here, but you're going to need to give me a little bit more - "

"I'm going to need you to stop calling me that," Quentin said, and there was that sharpness back around the edge of his voice. He looked up, then, and faced Eliot directly, and Eliot saw with a stab of horrified confusion that Q's eyes were bright with tears.

"What?"

" _Honey_ ," Quentin said, like the word tasted bad in his mouth. "And all that other shit you've been calling me, the pet names - it makes it - it makes it  _difficult_ , El. I'm. I get it, now, that I was fucking delusional to think... I - I think I just wanted to pretend for a while. I was being stupid, I get that, but..."

"What?" Eliot echoed again. He felt like his brain was rebooting. "What - what the fuck are you talking about? Delusional about  _what_?"

Quentin was still looking at him, straight at him, and his lip was actually quivering now. "Um," he started, and his voice cracked. "Fuck. Um. Listen, can we sit down?"

Quentin grabbed Eliot's arm, and Eliot found himself absurdly grateful for the point of contact. Q's touch was grounding. It felt like reality in a way that the rest of this conversation really didn't. He brought them over to the bench next to the mosaic, but once they'd both sat, Q pulled his hand away and twisted his fingers together on his lap, looking at his hands instead of at Eliot.

"You and me, we're in this quest together," Q said, quiet. "And over the last couple of days I've been doing a lot of thinking and I think that even though this is going to fucking suck for a little while, it's still best to be honest." He looked up at Eliot quickly, and then away. "Don't you think so?"

"Uh. Honest is good, yeah," Eliot said, completely confused. "Just say it. You can say anything to me, uh - Quentin. You should know that."

He was a little alarmed to notice that he'd just almost called Q 'baby' without even thinking about it. Had he been doing that all the time? Dropping little pet names like they were a couple? Damn it.

Q gave a humorless little laugh, pulling Eliot out of his thoughts. "It's not that easy..."

" _Quentin_ ," Eliot said, helpless. "I am sorry, you know. You were right, I should have told you about that guy - "

"Stop," Q said. "It's not even about that, El, it's - okay, listen. I'm just going to rip the band-aid off, here, and I'm going to need you to be quiet and not interrupt me."

"Okay."

Quentin looked up at him again for a long moment, then raised an eyebrow. Eliot coughed, and said: "Okay, really. I promise, I'll shut up."

There was something close to a smile at that, but for the most part Quentin still looked utterly miserable. It was making Eliot's insides squirm in a familiarly devastating way. All he wanted was for Q to be happy - if he wasn't, then what the hell was the point of any of this?

"You and I need to stop having sex," Quentin said. It was so quiet, and so matter of fact that Eliot almost missed it at first.

"Oh, um. Okay - "

"You said you wouldn't interrupt," Q said, severe, and Eliot clamped his mouth shut, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his heart was breaking. How the fuck had he screwed things up this badly? Did Q hate him now? He honestly didn't think he could take any more of this distance. If he could go back in time, if he could undo this...

"Um. Eliot, for me, what we've been doing the past year hasn't been like... a casual thing. I mean, I know we're stuck here in the past, and all that, but it's not. Like. It wasn't just convenient. Or just. I don't know, two best friends getting each other off. It was never like that for me. I - it's... it was really important and um. Special. To me. I know that probably sounds stupid."

Eliot pulled in a breath to respond, to rush and tell Quentin that it was special to him too, fuck it if that sounded pathetic, but Quentin shot him a warning glare and Eliot bit back on the words. Was this a fucking  _breakup_? Eliot had thought he had spared himself the awkward conversation part of this, had thought he'd telegraphed his magnanimous permission pretty well. He knew Quentin wanted Arielle, had known it for a while, but he hadn't really let himself think that Q was  _done_  with him. He'd sort of thought it would be an  _and_  situation, not an  _instead of_.

But that was stupid - Quentin was a relationship guy. He was the kind of person who fell head over heels for people and didn't look back. Was Q trying to tell him he'd had a lot of fun, but he wanted something more now, with the pretty little peaches and plums girl? The thought made Eliot literally sick to his stomach. But then it also didn't make sense, didn't track with Quentin's fuming silence over the last couple of days. Quentin had been pissed off about Peter, he'd been  _jealous_. Eliot was sure of that much.

"It's just that I don't think I can keep sleeping with you anymore, now that I have definitive proof that - that it's not the same for us both," Quentin was saying. Eliot blinked and shook his head, trying to make sense of the way his world was unraveling around him.

Q continued - "Eliot, when I kissed you for the first time here, on the mosaic... that wasn't a whim, you know. I'd been trying to buck up the courage to kiss you for months. And I know - I know I never said that, I know I never explained how I was feeling to you, so I can't be mad at you for not just like - reading my mind, or whatever. But I'd let myself believe in this... this unbelievable fantasy that we were on the same page, and that it was reciprocal, and I guess the last couple of days I've just needed some time to grieve for that fantasy. I feel horrible, El, I feel like I used you - I should have been honest with you all along. I knew, I mean - I should have  _known_ it wasn't like that for you and yet I let it keep happening because - well, you know."

Quentin finally seemed to be done talking. He gave Eliot a shrug, looking sad but also reflective, like he'd said his piece and now Eliot was supposed to nod and pat him on the head and tell him everything was forgiven.

Except.

Eliot was.

Losing. His goddamn. Mind.

"Reciprocal?" was the first word that he managed to form. It came out high pitched, almost hysterical, and he swallowed hard against the huge lump that had formed in his throat.

Quentin blinked at him, and cocked his head to the side. "Are you okay?"

" _No_ ," Eliot said, and he stood up, because he felt like he was about to fall off of the bench from shaking so hard, and maybe walking would help that. "No, I'm not okay. Because, you know, Q, it really kinda sounds like you're telling me you're in  _love_  with me."

"Well, yeah," Quentin said. His voice sounded so  _sad_ , so  _resigned_ , like -

"But you're  _not_!" Eliot said. Almost screeched. Quentin flinched at the sound. Eliot found himself pacing up and down in front of the bench, a hand gripped hard in his own hair. "You're  _not_ , why would you - what about Arielle?"

" _What_?"

"Arielle, you know? Gorgeous strawberry blonde? Sizable peaches, both metaphorical and literal?"

"I know who Arielle is, Eliot. I just don't know what the fuck she has to do with this insane conversation."

"You want her," Eliot said. He felt like he was explaining calculus to a toddler. "Don't pretend otherwise, Q, you  _want_  her. You're not in love with me, you can't be - you're not even - "

"If you say  _gay_  right now I might actually rip your dick off," Quentin said. He'd gone from this resigned sort of heartbreak to a ball of white hot fury in milliseconds. He jumped up and got in Eliot's face, staring up at him, intent. "And don't fucking tell me how I feel. I've been in love with you practically since we got here, so I think I'd have a better idea than you what's going on in my own head."

"You - but - no." Eliot shook his head, feeling cold all over. "You can't. I'm not - you. I. You and Arielle aren't... I mean I thought the two of you..."

Quentin seemed to see something in Eliot's expression, or maybe he was just taking pity on him for being a stuttering moron, because his fury shifted to a quieter simmer of concerned exasperation as he answered. "Eliot, I'm not a giant hypocrite, okay? You really think I'd sleep with someone else, not tell you about it, and then get angry at you for the exact same thing?"

"No, I knew... I mean I knew you and Arielle hadn't done anything, I just thought - I thought you  _wanted_  to."

Quentin shrugged, looking completely indifferent. "She's a beautiful woman, but no, I don't want her like that. I hadn't given it any thought."

" _Jesus_ ," Eliot said, feeling a potent mix of horror and elation at this shocking revelation.

Q pursed his lips, looking concerned but still dejected. "Eliot, listen I'm not trying to - it's not like I  _expect_ anything from you here, okay? I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to be honest with you. I'm sure I'll find a way to get over it, in time, but for now I just thought I owed you an explanation of how I was feeling. And I am really, truly, sorry for being a dick about this the past couple of days."

"Oh my God," Eliot said. Abstractedly, he heard the sound of his own voice, a sort of low moan of pain, of disbelief, mixed with just the smallest undercurrent of hope that made his heart squeeze tight in his chest. "You're serious. You're in love with me."

Quentin nodded. His eyebrows were scrunched on his forehead in that adorably confused way that made Eliot want to kiss away the lines they made on his face. He took an abortive step in Q's direction, but he couldn't commit to it. He felt like he was moving through molasses. Nothing felt real. He could feel happiness - ecstatic, overwhelming happiness, trying to batter down the disbelief that had built up a wall around Eliot's heart, but he couldn't let that wall down, not just yet. He didn't know how.

"I'm sorry," Q said, after a long moment. "I told you it was gonna suck for a while, but I still think honesty is the best policy, here. I just thought it might be helpful for you to understand - "

"No," Eliot said. Because suddenly something was dawning on him, and he really should have put it together instantly, but he felt like his entire universe had suddenly tilted forty-five degrees. The thing was, he couldn't afford to give himself time to think about this, to guard his fragile heart from the possibility of rejection, because Quentin was  _apologizing_  to him. "Oh my God."

"You already said that," Q said, trying for a lighthearted tone and failing miserably.

"You're  _apologizing_?" That was so goddamn horrifying. Eliot almost laughed, for want of another reaction.

Q shrugged again. "This wasn't something I intended. It just happened, I couldn't help it. You're my best friend in the world, El, and if I've ruined that - "

"Don't apologize," Eliot said. "Don't  _apologize_ , Q, Jesus, I - I thought - I mean, you have to know I feel - I'm. Fuck.  _Fuck_ , I'm fucking this up, I can't believe how badly I'm fucking this up."

Quentin took a step towards him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "It's going to be okay, El. This isn't going to ruin our friendship, I won't let it. It's like I said, I'm sure I'll get over it."

"You'd better not," Eliot said, and the happiness was finally punching through, mixed with the desperate guilt. His throat felt tight, like he couldn't get a proper breath, but it was an exhilarating sort of terror. "Don't get over it. Please."

"What?"

"Quentin, I'm in love with you too."

Dead silence, for the longest five seconds of Eliot's life. And then, in a voice so quiet, so timid that it made Eliot want to cry, Quentin spoke. "Really?"

"Yes. Obviously. Fuck, how could I not be? You're - you're  _everything_. I'm such a goddamn idiot, okay? If I fucked this up, if you can't forgive me, I'd understand, but please know that -  _mmmph_."

Quentin, for what it was worth, was actually a very, very good kisser.

This had surprised Eliot when they had first started this whole thing, because Q just put off this adorable, clumsy, virginal energy all the time, despite Eliot's empirical proof to the contrary. But Q's kisses, they were -  _thorough_. Confident, deep, all-consuming - so, so fucking good that Eliot was frequently too distracted by them to escalate things in bed until Q got impatient. This  _particular_ kiss, however, wasn't one of Quentin's more measured ones. It lacked finesse - a clumsy, frantic, biting attack that left Eliot completely helpless under the onslaught of an equal parts desperate and furious Quentin Coldwater. Eliot could do nothing but get his hands on Q's waist and hold on for the ride, practically weeping with gratitude that he hadn't lost this forever. It had technically been only two days since the last time he'd kissed Q, but he felt somehow touch-starved, like he'd been living under a veil of darkness and Quentin was bringing him back into the light.

Eliot had only just started to return the kiss with fervor when it ended, Quentin shoving hard against Eliot's chest as he stumbled back a few steps, breathing hard. "What the fuck is  _wrong_  with you, Eliot?"

"I - what?"

"You  _love_  me? You fucking asshole, you  _broke my heart_!"

"Q - "

"No, you know what?" Quentin said, and then just stood there gaping at Eliot for a few moments, out of words. "You - you - "

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, you have no idea. I swear to God I'll never even look at anyone else ever again. I was. I was fucked up, I was jealous - it didn't mean anything to me, alright?"

The words were inadequate. They felt weird in Eliot's mouth - it was the generic apology of a cheating boyfriend in every romantic comedy, the insufficient words of the throw-away love interest, the one the protagonist gave up on in order to pursue their true partner. But he didn't have any other words. He  _was_ sorry. He was sorry he'd slept with some random guy whose last name he didn't even know - he was sorry because he'd hurt Quentin, and because he might have ruined the very best thing he'd ever had by being too blind to see what was right in front of him.

More cliches. Excellent.

"That's not - " Quentin was a few paces away, still breathing hard. Eliot tried to ignore the red flush of his skin, the way his lips were swollen from the kiss. He seemed maybe slightly less infuriated, but there was still a hardness to his tone that warned Eliot not to approach."That's not even - look, a discussion of monogamy can wait, El, this is about the fact that you didn't even think we were  _together_. Apparently you were under the impression that I was off falling in love with someone else. I've been -  _openly_  and  _overwhelmingly_  affectionate with you, Eliot. I hold your hand and kiss you every chance I get, I sleep in the same bed with you every night and I take care of you when you're sick and pretending not to be, I put up with all of your bullshit without complaint - I didn't think I was being particularly subtle about how I felt, so how the hell did you - I mean, why would you think I wanted someone else?"

"You never said, though." Inadequate words, again. But Eliot felt like there was a boulder pressing down on his chest. He was the biggest goddamn idiot in the galaxy and the knowledge that he'd hurt Quentin like this -  _fuck_  it was devastating.

"Neither did you!" Quentin said. "I thought - I thought you just weren't the kind of guy who said the words, and I was trying not to be too - I don't know -  _intense_ , or whatever..."

"I thought you were straight," Eliot said, and Quentin's jaw snapped shut. Audibly. "I am aware of how catastrophically stupid that sounds. But it's what I thought. I thought I was the fucking cliche of all cliches, poor queer Eliot Waugh falling in love with his straight best friend."

"You've had your dick in my ass. And in my mouth. Literally more times than I can count. So."

Eliot laughed, a pained sound even to his own ears, and tried taking a step towards Quentin. Q froze him with a look. "I am aware of that, Q. And I'm also aware of the fact that I'm the only other living soul in this world who shares your life experience, and I'm aware of the fact that you like me, that you maybe even find me attractive, and that I'm good at giving people orgasms. So. There's that."

"God, you're full of yourself. You thought you were so good in bed that you'd - what - turned me, or something?"

Eliot shrugged. There was still that glow of happiness inside of his chest, a pulsing truth -  _Quentin loves you. He loves_   _you. He fucking loves you_. But there were fault-lines on his heart, little splinters of pain and uncertainty, ones he wanted very badly to share with Q, to repair with his assistance. He took a deep breath and tried to be brave. "I'm not full of myself. I'm honest about some stuff, that's all. I know I'm a good looking guy. I know I'm good at sex. But I'm also mostly convinced that I'm fundamentally unlovable, and that anyone who actually gets to know me would have to be crazy to stick around."

He paused for a moment, watched Quentin's face twist as he tried to come up with a response to that. And then he continued - "And no, I didn't think I'd  _turned_  you. I thought... I thought you'd walk away the second someone came along who could offer you what I couldn't."

"Eliot, that's - incredibly fucked up."

"Yeah. But also, Q, you were moping around the past couple of days apparently convinced that I could never love you, so what does that say about - "

"I'm not the one who fucked someone else," Quentin snapped. "We're not psychoanalyzing me right now. The fact that I'm the most insecure person on this planet and probably all of the other planets isn't exactly breaking news. The point is,  _I_ never gave you reason to think I wanted anything else.  _You_ are the one who did that."

"And I'm sorry. I'll fucking grovel, if you want. I know I hurt you and that's literally the last thing in the world I'd ever want to do. I know this is going to sound idiotic, but I thought I was... I thought I was doing you a kindness."

" _Ha_."

"I thought you wanted Arielle, Quentin. The way you looked at her, the way you talked about her - I just - I got it into my head that you had feelings for her, and that you weren't acting on them out of like... politeness or something. That you were sparing my feelings."

"That's moronic."

"Yes. I'm not going to contest that. I'm just trying to explain myself. It's not an excuse, it's just - I thought I was giving you  _permission_ , somehow? Or... like... if I could show you that it wasn't a big deal, that we could keep doing what we were doing and also fuck other people, maybe I'd get to keep you. At least for a while longer."

"Or you were jealous and you wanted to hurt me."

"No!" Eliot paused, then thought about it. Quentin deserved his full honesty. "Or, I don't think so. Not consciously, Q, I swear."

"You'd be okay with me and Arielle?" Quentin asked. He sounded casually curious, and Eliot's throat started to close up again.

"Um. I want you to be happy." There. That wasn't a lie.

"I like Arielle," Quentin said, and the happy feeling in Eliot's chest constricted painfully, tilting sideways. "I like her for the same reasons I thought  _you_  liked her. She's - she's from Fillory, you know? She forced me to get out of the bubble... to think about this place as a home, to think about building a life here, making friends, being part of a community. It's exhilarating and kind of scary and Ari is really amazing, and... well, Eliot, you know me. I develop a crush on literally everyone who's nice to me, but it doesn't  _mean_  anything. I'm sorry if I made you think it was anything more than that."

"You don't have to apologize for that, Q," Eliot said, and this time when he took a step forward, Quentin didn't stop him. He took another, and reached a hand up to place it lightly against the side of Quentin's arm. "In fact, you don't have to apologize for anything ever again, if you tell me right now that I still have a shot."

Quentin blinked at him, his eyes bright and wide and - "You are such an unbelievable idiot." He almost sounded awed, like he was just realizing the truly limitless depths of Eliot's stupidity, and he couldn't help but be impressed. Eliot could only nod, feeling numb, feeling like his entire future was in Q's hands. The power of that, of knowing that the man standing in front of him could destroy him with a single word... it was terrifying, but Eliot knew it was inevitable. It was far too fucking late to turn back from this.

"I don't want anyone else," Eliot said. Christ, his voice was wobbling all over the place like he was about to burst into tears. Maybe he was. "Only you. Forever, if you'll let me."

And then it was Quentin who was crying. Just a little, a few tears tracing their way down his cheeks as he stared up at Eliot with that look he got sometimes, that open, beautiful, heartbreaking love. How had Eliot doubted this? "That sounds good to me," Q said, and he reached up to pull Eliot down to him once more.

* * *

They spent the rest of the day fighting and fucking in equal measure. Eliot thought he might actually be addicted to the sounds Q made when he was being fucked, little broken moans deep in the back of his throat. Or the way he locked his legs around Eliot when they were fucking face to face, like any amount of space between them was criminal. Or the way he never stopped talking, babbling and keening through words of adoration, even when Eliot was trying to kiss him quiet.

Of course, Q kept interrupting the really hot sex to tell Eliot he was a goddamn moron, but somehow that too was part of the charm. Eliot was such a fucking goner.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think, and feel free to come scream about Queliot with me on tumblr @nellie-elizabeth. Thanks everyone!


End file.
